


The Princess Bride: Jossed!

by beetle



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Princess Bride (1987)
Genre: AU, Crossover, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I Jossed The Princess Bride.</p>
<p>~ { THE PRINCESS’S GROOM } ~</p>
<p>Cast of Characters:</p>
<p>Westley / Wesley<br/>Buttercup, The Princess Bride / Liam<br/>Prince Humperdinck / Darla <br/>Count Rugen / Lindsey MacDonald<br/>Inigo Montoya / Francis Doyle<br/>Fezzik / A.D.A.M. <br/>Vizzini / Richard Wilkins<br/>Miracle Max / Xander<br/>Valerie / Anyanka<br/>The Grandfather / Spike<br/>The Grandson / Dawn Summers<br/>The Mother / Buffy Summers<br/>The Queen / Drusilla<br/>The King / William<br/>Yellin / Lilah<br/>The Impressive Clergyman / Andrew Wells<br/>The Albino / Knox<br/>The Booer / Snyder<br/>Assistant Brute / Faith</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for the movie, not so much for the Joss!verse.

[Scene: Just after sunset. Dawn Summers’ bedroom. Dawn is in bed, in her PJs, talking on the phone and painting her toenails. Buffy Summers enters and leans on the entryway, unnoticed]  
  
Buffy: Someone’s feeling better.  
  
Dawn:  _(sotto voice)_  Gotta go, Janice! Hey, Buffy! How was work?   
  
Buffy:  _(shrugs)_  I’m gonna say beefy. It’s gonna take forever   
to get that smell out of my hair . . . is your fever down?  
  
  
Dawn:  _(making a pitiful-me face and putting away the nail polish)_  
A little bit.  
  
 _(Buffy comes in and sits on the bed; Dawn groans when she gets the hand-forehead temperature test, but allows it without comment)_  
  
Buffy: So, guess what?  
  
Dawn: What?  
  
Buffy Spike's here.   
  
Dawn: Buffy!   
  
 _(Dawn’s hands fly to face and hair, then flutter helplessly over her PJs)_  
  
Can't you tell him I'm sick?  
  
Buffy: You're sick, Dawnie--that's why he's here. To keep an eye on you.  
  
Dawn: I can take care of myself!  _(pouts)_  
Anyway, he’s just gonna be all over-protective   
and treat me like a little kid! I hate that!  
  
Buffy: Maybe he won't. . . .  
  
 _(Enter Spike, eyebrow quirked, duster flaring out behind him. He slams the bedroom door open and it rebounds off the wall.)_  
  
Spike: Oi! How's the littlest Summers?  
  
Dawn: Eep--!  
  
 _(embarrassed by her very uncool _Barbie_  PJs, she pulls the covers up to her chin) _  
  
Spike:  _(warily)_  
Not feelin’ worse, are you? Don’t fancy   
watching you chuck up, pet.  
  
Buffy: She’s fine, Spike.  _(stands up and crosses arms)_  
But you better not tell her any of your   
“Back Before I Was Chipped’ stories, or so help me. . . .  
  
Spike:  _(sighs and looks very put-upon)_  
Yeah, yeah, whatever, Slayer. Don’t you have a   
White Hats Anonymous meeting to attend? Piss off.   
  
 _(Buffy huffs, but is already half-way out the door. When the front door slams shut a minute later, Spike removes a badly-wrapped package from within the duster.)_    
  
Brought you a pressie, platelet.  
  
 _(Dawn stops trying to fix her hair while keeping the covers pulled up to her chin)_  
  
Dawn: No way! What is it?  
  
Spike: Open it.  
  
 _(Dawn quickly shreds off the wrapping paper--which appears to be pages from a skin mag. The pressie is an old, scuffed book, bound in some sort of weird leather. The title is in creepy looking script; just looking at it makes Dawn’s eyes hurt)_  
  
Dawn: A book?  
  
Spike:  _(makes himself comfortable in the chair next to Dawn’s bed)_  
  
When I was your age, television was called  _books_ , love.   
And this is a special book, innit? It’s the book   
my Sire read to me when I was just a fledge,   
and I used to read it to Dru, when she was . . .   
feelin’ poorly. Tonight, I’m gonna read it to you.  
  
Dawn: You’re . . . gonna read me a bedtime story?   
Of course you are . . . it doesn’t exactly look   
like a page-turner.  
  
Spike:  _(offended)_  You kidding me, pet?! ‘S got fencin’,   
fightin’, torture, revenge, giants, monsters, chases,   
escapes, true love--bleedin’  _miracles_. . . .  
  
Dawn: Okay, okay. I guess it doesn't sound totally awful.   
I'll try and stay awake.  
  
Spike: Oh, well, ta muchly, Your Majesty. Your vote of confidence   
is overwhelming. Right, then. The Princess’s Groom.   
By W. Lovejoy, Chapter One.   
  
 _(squints at the pages and brings the book closer to his face)_    
  
“Liam was raised on a rather large distillery in County Cork, Ireland.   
His favorite pastimes were wenching, whoring, womanizing,   
drinking, and tormenting his father’s hired man, an accountant   
named Wesley. But Liam--the bog-trottin’ savage--  
couldn’t be arsed to called him that.”  
  
 _(Spike pauses, pleased with himself)_  
  
Bloody brilliant beginning, that.  
  
Dawn:  _(sighing again)_  Yeah. What _ever_.  
  
  
[Scene: The green, rolling hills of Ireland. The ancestral manor house, stables, grounds and distillery. Liam stalks out of the stables and into the manor house.]  
  
Spike: “Nothin’ gave the git as much pleasure as bossin’ Wesley around."  
  
[Cut to the library. Behind the lone desk sits Wesley, going over the books. He starts when Liam’s suddenly burst into the room, carrying a scuffed saddle.]  
  
Liam: Hey, you . . . Englishman! Polish me horse's saddle!   
I want to see my face shinin’ in it by noon!  
  
 _(Wesley frowns and adjusts his spectacles, leaving ink smudges on his pale face)_  
  
Wesley: Really--how many times must I tell you? I was hired   
to tend your father’s finances, not coddle his children.   
  
 _(Liam gives Wesley a patient, superior smirk and holds out the saddle. Wesley sighs and takes it.)_    
  
Oh, alright, Liam, give it here.  
  
Spike: “Came a point when 'oh, alright, Liam, give it here'   
was all Wesley ever said to the bullying git.”  
  
  
[Scene: The manor house. Wesley’s bedroom. The middle of the night. Liam barges in with an empty cask, waking Wesley out of a sound sleep.]  
  
Liam: Hey, you . . . Englishman! Fill these with *hic* whisky . . . now!  
  
  
Wesley:  _(sleepily)_  Oh, alright, Liam, give it here.  
  
 _(He drags himself out of bed and takes the cask. Liam looks suddenly flummoxed as Wesley shuffles out the door)_  
  
Spike: "That day Liam was amazed to discover that when Wesley   
was saying 'oh, fine, give it here', what he meant was,   
'saying no to you isn’t worth the drubbing   
I’m sure to receive should I defy you'.   
And even more amazing was the day Liam realized   
he had a pretty, young man who never said no to him,  
at his beck and call. He also realized that till then,   
the scope of his imagination had been very, very small, indeed.”  
  
  
[Scene: Outside Liam’s bedroom. Wesley is trying to sneak quietly by, quills and foolscap clutched to his chest like a shield. But Liam’s door slams open and the man himself leans against the doorway, shirtless, smirking and relatively sober.]   
  
Liam: Hey, you . . . Englishman--got a present for ya. . . .  
  
Wesley:  _(steels himself, expecting some manner of puerile prank)_    
Oh, alright, Liam, give it here.   
  
 _(Liam smiles and yanks Wesley into his room by the scruff of his shirt.)_  
  
  
[Cut to several hours later. Liam’s bedroom is a shambles of over-turned furniture, torn clothing and a broken bed. In the midst of this wreckage lay Liam and Wesley. Liam is asleep and snoring. Wesley is grinning goofily up at the ceiling. Liam stirs just enough to pull Wesley closer. . . .]  
  
Dawn: “Hold it, hold it! What is this? Are you reading me . . . porn?   
Are you reading me  _gay_  porn? Oh, my God!”  _(squees)_  
  
Spike:  _(sounding ruffled)_  “‘S more to it, than gay porn--”  
  
Dawn: “Who needs more than two hot guys kissing and groping and fu--”  
  
Spike: “Right! I’ll just chalk your disturbing zeal up to the fever.   
Anyway  _(turns page)_  business was slow, that year.   
To save money, Liam’s father had to give young Wesley the sack.  
Wesley hadn’t nearly enough savings to be a ponce of leisure--  
let alone keep Liam in the whisky and whores to which   
he was accustomed. So, he decided to seek his fortune   
elsewhere in the Empire.”  
  
Dawn: “Woooo!  _(bounces)_  Goodbye-nookie!”  
  
  
[Scene: Wesley’s scary-neat bedroom. Liam and Wesley are saying their farewells in a fairly predictable fashion. Wesley’s got one leg bent till it’s tucked practically up under his chin, and the other one over Liam’s shoulder. The bed is rocking and creaking alarmingly.]  
  
Liam: I fear I'll never--take it, bitch!--never see you again.  
  
Wesley: Bosh! I’m quite--oh, God, right there!--capable of taking care of myself.   
  
Spike: “Liam’d had Wesley in many different ways and places:   
bent over a desk. Bent over a table. Bent over a fallen log.   
Bent over a great chunk of stone. Even bent over the altar   
in the family chapel. But this was the first time he’d ever   
had Wesley on his back, and in his own bed. Looking into   
those baby blues, Liam felt a twinge of worry.”  
  
Liam: You know, Wes . . . maybe you should borrow my Claymore--  
or at least beg a cudgel off one of the servants--  
  
Wesley: What need have I for sword, or stave?  
  
 _(He pulls Liam’s face to his for a kiss--their first one. It’s gentle and sweet and lasts rather longer than either of them expect. When it ends, they look into each other’s eyes . . . then Liam resumes trying to drive Wesley through the headboard)_  
  
Liam: Stubborn English pig! Brainless, effete bastard!  
I don’t want anythin’ to happen to you, alright?  
At least carry a pair of scissors--  
  
Wes: _(laughing breathlessly)_  Liam, I’m an English gentleman   
travelling in and around Ireland, without weapon   
or guard. What could possibly happen to me?  
  
Liam: Er. . . .   
  
Spike: "Wesley left the very next morning.   
But he didn't even make it to the main road.   
He was attacked just outside the gate,   
by the Dread Highwayman Ripper,   
who never left Englishmen alive. . . .  
When Liam got the news that Wesley was murdered--"  
  
Dawn: “Murdered by highwaymen? That’s so harsh. . . .”  
  
Spike: “But hardly unexpected. Anyway, when Liam found out   
Wesley was murdered, he locked himself in Wes’s   
scary-neat bedroom and barricaded the door.   
Had him a good, long brood, he did.   
For hours, he neither wenched nor drank.”  
  
  
[Scene: Wesley’s room. Liam is sitting on the neatly made bed, staring out the window, into the night.]  
  
Liam:  _(brooding and mumbling)_  English bastard.  
Spoils me for wenches, then goes off and gets killed.  
 _(sighs)_  Guess I’ll just have to go back to buggering stablehands.   
  
Spike: "Five years later, the courtyard of Buckingham Palace was filled,   
as never before. There was to be a royal announcement.”   
  
  
[Scene: In front of Buckingham palace. A dirty, raggedy, rather poxy crowd of peasants have gathered in the light drizzle. On a high, central balcony stands Queen Drusilla, the Mad; King William, the Bookish and the Virgin Princess Darla.]  
  
Darla:  _(addressing the crowd)_    
My people. A month from now, our Empire will celebrate   
Guy Fawkes’ Night. On that moonrise, I will take a husband,   
who was once nothing more than common Irish scum.   
But perhaps you won’t not find him common--or scummy  
\--now.  _(Darla grins eviliciously)_  Would you like to meet him?  
  
Poxy English Peasants:   
Huzzah!  
  
Darla: My people . . . Bonny Prince Liam!   
  
 _(Liam enters the square, broody, forbidding and hot, in silk and black leather. He glares at the crowds of English surrounding him, then up at the balcony. Princess Darla’s evilicious smile gets just a tad evilicious-er and Liam looks away, muttering)_  
  
Spike: "Liam's broodiness consumed him. Though the   
law of the land gave Darla the right to choose   
her groom, he couldn’t get it up for her. Despite   
Darla’s toys, threesomes and threats of castration--  
or perhaps because of that last--Liam couldn’t perform,   
try though he did. Hence, he spent a lot of time   
at other macho, manly pursuits. Like horseback riding."  
  
  
[Scene: Lane alongside river. Liam is riding a horse and brooding. Suddenly, he notices three men standing in a clearing just ahead. In ascending order of height, there was a wiry, dark-haired son of Eire, like himself; a jovial-looking fellow with kindly eyes and a huge, motley, mountain of a man. Liam stops his horse just shy of the trio.]  
  
Doyle: A word, there, pal. We’re kinda lost, yeah?   
 _(smiles and dimples)_  Would there be a village, or pub nearby?  
  
Liam: No pubs around here, lad. No decent ones, anyway.   
No villages, either.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Well, that’s just super-duper, isn’t it, fellas?   
 _(laughs heartily as A.D.A.M approaches Liam)_    
There won’t be anyone around to hear him scream.  
  
Liam: Stay back!   
  
 _(He tries to draw his Claymore, but A.D.A.M. wrests it from his grasp and decks him. Liam topples to the ground, unconscious.)_  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
_(walks over and nudges Liam with his boot.)_  
Golly, he’s just so precious when he’s asleep!  
  
  
[Scene: A small pier along the river Thames. A.D.A.M. is climbing into the small ship moored there, Liam slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Doyle is standing on the shore, watching Richard Wilkins pour whisky on Liam’s horse, then scatter some wilted four-leafed clovers on it’s mane.]  
  
Doyle: What're ya doin’? That’s perfectly good whisky you wasted!  
Not to mention a lotta good luck!  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
 _(humming absently as he sprinkles and pours)_  
Not wasting, Mr. Doyle. Leaving as an evidence trail.  
  
A.D.A.M.:   
 _(tilting his huge, cyborg head to an angle that denotes curiosity)_  
I see. May I ask why clovers and whisky?  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Well, gosh, Silly-Billy! It’s just so unmistakably  _Irish_.   
 _(smacks the horse’s flank)_  Git along, little horsey! Run free!  
  
 _(He watches the horse trot out of sight, smiling wistfully, then boards the boat)_  
  
Once our equine friend reaches the palace,   
the clovers and whisky will make the princess   
suspect the Irish have abducted her little friend.   
Sadly, when she finds his mutilated, lifeless body  
on the Irish shore, her suspicions will be totally confirmed.  
  
A.D.A.M.: Hmm. This is a disturbing and unexpected turn of events.  
  
Doyle: I’ll say! You never mentioned anythin’ about killin’ the poor bastard!   
  
Richard Wilkins:   
 _(pouting)_  Gee--I hired you fellas to help me start a war.   
It's a prestigious line of work, with a long and glorious   
history. And a nifty little dental plan.  
  
Doyle: Yeah, but--  
 _(pauses on the gang-plank)_    
Dental, ya say?  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Sure shootin’!  
  
Doyle: Well. . . .  
  
A.D.A.M.:  _(interrupting)_  I strongly disagree with this course of action, Richard.   
 _(looks over at Doyle expectantly)_  
  
Doyle: Fine, fine . . . I think it’s a bad idea, too.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
 _(chuckles)_  Wowee, I must be going deaf! I thought   
I just heard the word  _think_  escape your lips.  
 _(in his coldscaryquiet voice)_  Let’s get one thing straight,   
my leprechaun-hugging friend--I didn’t hire you for your brains.  
  
A.D.A.M.: You prove incapable of extrapolating a positive result from this plan.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
The Bionic Man has spoken!  _(sighs)_  If you two are going be   
all squeamish about committing murder,  _I’ll_  do it.   
You know, it’s like my Edna Mae always said: Dickie, if you want   
someone killed right, you’ve gotta kill ‘em yourself!   
  
 _(Another wistful sigh as he remembers his Edna Mae)_  
  
But you boys wanna remember . . .  _(grins at Doyle)_    
when I found you, why--you had so many unpaid bar-tabs,   
no pub in Ireland would extend you credit! And you--   
 _(smiles and tsks at A.D.A.M.)_  you were in so many pieces,   
the Army Corps of Engineers couldn’t put you back together!   
Am I gonna have to send you boys back to where you were?   
Unemployed, and stuck in room 314?  
  
(Doyle and A.D.A.M., together):   
No, sir.  
  
Richard Wilkins:  
Well, alrighty-roo! No more sass and backtalk,   
no more nonsense about not killing princes!   
Let’s get this cruise on the move! Ahoy, maties!  
  
 _(A.D.A.M. and Doyle start tugging on ropes and finally weigh anchor. Richard Wilkins takes the helm, whistling a jaunty tune)_  
  
Doyle: That Richard Wilkins . . . he sure likes to fuss.  
  
A.D.A.M.:  _(hoists the jib)_  And vent his frustrations by threatening us.  
  
Richard Wilkins:  
 _(singing in the background)_  
“. . . Love, exciting and new. . . !”   
  
Doyle: He's really in love with the sound of his own voice.  
  
A.D.A.M.: And when it comes to his plans, we don’t get much choice.  
  
Doyle:  _(admiringly)_  You’ve the gift of gab, no mistake.  
  
A.D.A.M.: I’d much prefer a slice of cake.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Hey, why don’t you boys stop licking   
your wounds and sing sea shanties with me!   
 _(singing)_  
 _”Love, life's sweetest reward. . . .!_ ”  
  
Doyle:  _(rolling his eyes)_  Say, A.D.A.M., are there rocks ahead?  
  
A.D.A.M.: If there are, we will all be killed most horribly.   
 _(at Doyle’s surprised look, he shrugs)_  
They can’t all be winners, Francis.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
 _(singing)_  
“ _Love . . . life’s sweetest reward. . . ._ ”  
  
A.D.A.M.:  _(under his breath)_  Someone run me through with a sword.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
 _(singing)_    
 _The Looooooooove Boat, soon we’ll be making another run. . . !_  
  
  
[Scene: Night. Open water. Doyle is looking back the way they came. There’s a small boat in the distance.]  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
We'll reach the shore by dawn, stop being such a Nervous Ned!  
  
Doyle: You’re sure nobody's followin’ us?  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Kiddo, that would be unfathomable.  
  
Liam:  _(glaring and sporting a huge, purpling bruise on his jaw)_  
You’ll pay for this, you mangy, dung-lickin’ curs!  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
My, my! Such graphic language! What is the world  
coming to, I ask you? Call me old-fashioned, but I remember   
when princes and princesses were suitable role-models for young folks.  
But now--the royal family’s rife with violent, unstable potty-mouths.  
It breaks the heart.   
  
Liam: Darla’ll see you all hanged by your own entrails!  
  
Richard Wilkins:  
Of all the necks on this boat, Mr. Grumpy-Gus,   
the one you should be worrying about is your own.   
 _(grins, and glances over at Doyle, who’s staring aftward)_    
Oh, relax, Mr. Doyle! It's almost over!  
  
Doyle: You’re sure nobody's followin’ us?  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
 _(sighs expressively)_  As I told you, it would be completely,   
patently, and in all other ways, unfathomable. No one in Ireland  
knows what we've done, and no one in England could've  
gotten here so fast . . . out of curiosity, why do you ask?  
  
Doyle: No reason; I just looked behind us and somethin’s back there.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Probably some local fisherman out for a pleasure  
cruise at night . . . through eel-infested waters.  
  
 _(Doyle and A.D.A.M. look at him and he shrugs cheerily)_  
  
That was how Edna Mae and I spent our second honeymoon,  
and let me tell you--  
  
 _(There’s a loud splash; Liam has dived overboard. The trio rush to portside. Liam is cutting through the water quickly. Richard Wilkins looks at his henchmen expectantly)_  
  
Doyle:  _(shrugs)_  Can't swim, me.  
  
A.D.A.M.: Water would short out critical circuits in my neural net, as well as--  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Bring us about, Mr. Doyle!   
  
 _(Doyle rushes to obey and the boat swings about sharply. Just then, a high-pitched wail sounds from several different directions. Grinning, Richard Wilkins calls out to Liam)_  
  
Do you know what that sound is, your highness?  
Those are the shrieking eels. If you don’t believe me,  
just wait. They always grow louder when they’re about  
to feed on human flesh . . . the little dickenses!  
If you swim back now, I promise: none of us will  
eat you. I kinda doubt you’ll get the same offer from  
the eels.  
  
 _(The eel closing in on Liam shrieks louder and Liam swims faster)_  
  
  
[Scene: Dawn's bedroom.]  
  
Spike: Unfortunately, he doesn't get eaten by the eels at that time.  
  
Dawn:  _(blinks)_  Huh?  
  
Spike: The eel doesn't get him.  _(lights a cigarette and takes a drag)  
I'm explainin’ to you because you kinda got sucked into the narrative.  
  
Dawn: Did not!  _(off Spike’s doubtful gaze)_  
Well, maybe I was a little bit curious, but that's not the same thing.  
  
Spike: Cuz we can stop now, and go watch  _Trading Spaces_.  
  
Dawn: The new episodes don’t start till next week, so . . .   
 _(coughs and waves away Spike’s cigarette smoke)_  
you could read a little bit more, or whatever.  
  
Spike: _(nods and grounds his cigarette out on the bottom of his left Doc)_  
Right, then--  
  
  
[Scene: Back on the boat]  
  
Spike: "Oi! You know what that sound is, your Highness?   
‘S the shriekin’ eels--"  
  
Dawn: “We passed that, Spike. You read that part already.”  
  
  
[Cut back to Dawn’s bedroom. Spike’s squinting at the book.]  
  
Spike: Bugger me, I did, didn’t I? Sorry ‘bout that, pet.   
Uh . . . let's see . . . Liam was in the water,   
the eel was comin' after him, he was swimmin’   
for his life, the eel started to charge him, and then--  
  
  
[Scene: Back on the boat. A.D.A.M. punches through the eel charging Liam, and it explodes into chunks. Then he snatches Liam out of the water and drags him over to the mast. Doyle brings over some rope. A.D.A.M. ties Liam up and Doyle glances aftward]  
  
Doyle: I think Mr. Pleasure-Cruise is gettin’ closer, boss!  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
 _(Not smiling quite so much, now)_  
Let’s not buy trouble, Mr. Doyle, we’ve already   
got more than enough.  
  
 _(eyes Liam calculatingly and gets a thunderous scowl in return)_  
  
I suppose you think you're pretty brave?  
  
Liam:  _(sneering)_  Compared to some on this boat.  
  
  
[Scene: The rocky shores of Ireland. Still out on open water, but closing on their location, is the other boat.]  
  
Doyle:  _(manning the helm)_  Look! He's right on top of us.   
Bet he’s usin’ the same wind  _we’re_  usin’!  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Well, whoever this Nosy-Parker is, he’s too late, see?   
 _(points at the cliffs that tower upward for hundreds of feet)_  
The Cliffs of Crag! Let’s hustle, boys! It’s go time!  
Hoist the jib and swab the forecastle! Bring the captive! Gar!  
  
 _(Doyle and A.D.A.M. jump to obey his orders. They grab their gear, and Liam, and scramble off the boat and onto the rocky strip of beach. Doyle keeps the Claymore to Liam’s throat while Richard Wilkins puts a leather harness, with three holders, on A.D.A.M. Hanging down the cliff face is a thick, sturdy rope)_  
  
Richard Wilkins:  
We're safe, now, boys. Only A.D.A.M. is strong enough   
to go up our way. He'll have to sail around for hours   
till he finds a harbor.  
  
Doyle: _(crossing himself quickly)_  Hail Mary, fulla grace, blessed art thou--  
  
Liam: Whaddaya mean 'strong enough to go up our way'? What--  
  
 _(he looks up the cliff, eyes widening as he finally puts two and two together)_    
  
Jaysus, Mary and Joseph . . . Our Father, who art in Heaven,   
hallowed be Thy name. . . .  
  
 _(Liam crosses himself as well, muttering every prayer he knows as A.D.A.M. ascends the rope)_  
_


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I Jossed The Princess Bride.
> 
> ~ { THE PRINCESS’S GROOM } ~
> 
> Cast of Characters:
> 
> Westley / Wesley  
> Buttercup, The Princess Bride / Liam  
> Prince Humperdinck / Darla   
> Count Rugen / Lindsey MacDonald  
> Inigo Montoya / Francis Doyle  
> Fezzik / A.D.A.M.   
> Vizzini / Richard Wilkins  
> Miracle Max / Xander  
> Valerie / Anyanka  
> The Grandfather / Spike  
> The Grandson / Dawn Summers  
> The Mother / Buffy Summers  
> The Queen / Drusilla  
> The King / William  
> Yellin / Lilah  
> The Impressive Clergyman / Andrew Wells  
> The Albino / Knox  
> The Booer / Snyder  
> The Assistant Brute / Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Spoilers/Warnings: Spoilers for the movie, not so much for the Joss!verse.

  
[Scene: Climbing the cliff. Doyle, Richard Wilkins and Liam are clinging to A.D.A.M., as he climbs the rope to the top of the cliff. Doyle looks down just in time to see a masked figure in black stare up at them from the beach.]  
  
Doyle: Saints preserve us! He's climbing the rope--hell, he’s gainin’ on us!  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Unfathomable! Can’t you go any faster?  
  
A.D.A.M.: I cannot exceed the current speed of ascent without   
risking permanent damage to my--  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
You were this big bad abomination--you were this legendary   
demon-cyborg hybrid, and yet Joe Schmoe, down there’s   
playing catch-up! Really, now!  
  
A.D.A.M.: I’m ascending a sheer, vertical face, some hundreds of feet high,   
carrying in excess of five hundred pounds, and my power-cell   
is beginning to overheat--  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
That’s not a can-do attitude, Mr. Cyborg!   
Part of being a do-be is knowing when to say   
‘the buck stops here'--  
  
A.D.A.M.: My systems cannot process alcohol, but I’d kill for a beer.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Levity? Mr. Cyborg, did I make it clear that your  _job_  is at stake?   
  
  
[Scene: At the top of the cliff. Richard Wilkins is cutting the rope. Liam is kissing the ground and sobbing. Doyle and A.D.A..M are leaning out over the edge to watch the masked man tumble to his rocky doom.]  
  
A.D.A.M.:  _(almost smiling)_  He has exceptional control and stamina.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
 _(rushing over to look down the cliff face)_  
He didn’t fall? That’s  _darned_  unfathomable!  
  
A.D.A.M.: You persist in using that word, yet I doubt you   
fully comprehend its meaning.   
  
Doyle: My God! He's climbin’!  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Well, that’s a shame . . . whoever he is, he's obviously   
seen us with the prince and must therefore die.   
  
 _(calling down to the masked man)_   
Sorry about this, stranger! Nothing personal!  
  
 _(Sheathes his dagger and marches toward the ruins)_  
Carry the prince, Mr. Cyborg. We’re off to Dublin.   
Catch up when he's dead. If he falls--super! If not, well--  
stab him a few times with that big Ginsu you like so much.  
  
Doyle: What?! Are you daft, man? I can’t use this thing!  
 _(drops Liam’s Claymore like it’s on fire)_  
I’m a lover, not a fighter!  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Now, now, Mr. Doyle. You knew there’d be some   
rough-housing, and possibly fisticuffs, when I hired you.  
  
Doyle: Yeah, but--  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Think of your bar-tab, Mr. Doyle . . . about never being able to drink again. . . .  
  
Doyle: Alright, alright, I’ll--I’ll give him a couple of jabs with this   
and let him bleed out.  
  
Richard Wilkins:  
 _(beaming paternally)_  That’s all I ask.  
  
A.D.A.M.:  _(watches Wilkins stride off whistling, then hauls Liam to his feet)_  
You be careful. It is my limited experience that   
people who wear masks unnecessarily have   
complex, deep-seated pathologies.  
  
Doyle: What, now?  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
 _(calls over his shoulder)_  Time’s a-wastin’, slow-poke!   
  
 _(Wilkins, A.D.A.M. and Liam depart the ruins, leaving Doyle to prepare for the masked man. He swings the Claymore clumsily a few times, till it nearly goes sailing out of his hands and over the cliff)_  
  
Doyle:  _(mutters)_  Probably decapitate meself with this damn thing.  
  
 _(He leans out over the cliff. The masked man is making tentative progress up the cliff face)_  
  
Hey there, pal! Slow goin', yeah?  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:   
 _(glancing up at Doyle witheringly)_  
Rather. Look, I don't mean to be rude, but this   
is not as effortless as I make it seem, so I'd appreciate it   
if you wouldn't distract me. . . .  
  
Doyle: Apologies, mate!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
 _(tersely)_  Thank you.  
  
Doyle: But I don’t suppose you could hurry this along a bit--?  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
I daresay, if you're in such a hurry, you could lower a rope or  
a tree branch or find something useful to do.  
  
Doyle: I could do that. In fact--I’ve got some rope layin’ around,   
but I don’t think you’d accept my help, since--you know.  
I’m only hangin’ around to kill ya.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:   
That does put a damper on our relationship.  
  
Doyle: What if I promised not to kill you ‘til you reach the top?  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
That's not at all comforting. I'm afraid you'll just have to wait.  
  
Doyle: I hate waiting  _(paces for a few moments)_  
I could give you my word as an Irishman--  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
 _(snorts)_  You’re not serious, are you?  
  
Doyle: Ah, c’mon, mate! Is there any way you’d trust me?  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Nothing immediately comes to mind.  
  
Doyle:  _(posture changing slightly as he puts his hand over his heart)_  
I swear, on the golden voice of my mentor, you’ll reach the top alive.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
 _(hesitates--then his hand slips a little and he sighs)_  
Oh, alright, give it here--I mean throw me the rope, of course.  
  
 _(Doyle uncoils the last of the rope and lowers it; soon, the masked man is climbing over the ledge, panting. He staggers to his feet, trying to draw his rapier.)_  
  
Doyle: None o’ that, pal! At least catch your breath before you try to kill me!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
 _(surprised)_  Very sporting of you, sir.  
  
Doyle: Yeah, that’s me. Sportin’.  
  
 _(They make themselves semi-comfortable on the rocks. The masked man removes his boots and dumps out numerous pebbles with another sigh)_  
  
Hey, pal, I don’t wanna pry, but--you don't   
by any chance happen to have a evil left hand, do ya?  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:   
 _(obviously not knowing whether to be incredulous or insulted)_  
Do you always begin conversations this way?  
  
Doyle: My mentor’s career was ruined by a man with an evil left hand.   
  
 _(The masked man takes off his glove and holds up his left hand. Doyle squints at it, then nods his satisfaction before taking up his tale.)_  
  
He was a great singer/songwriter, my mentor  
When the evil-handed man showed up at his bar   
and commissioned a special song, my mentor took the job.   
He slaved a year before it was done, and it was stunnin’.  
Wouldja like to hear some of it--?  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:   
Er . . . that’s quite alright. You’ve given me no reason  
to doubt your word. Please, do continue with your story.  
  
Doyle: Where was I? Oh, yeah. The evil-handed man returned   
and demanded the song, but insisted it be transposed   
into another key. Lorne refused, of course. Without another word,   
the one-handed man slashed his reputation--from L.A. to   
New York. He even went so far as commission a song from  
Diane Warren!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
 _(shuddering)_  
What a monster!  
  
Doyle: Yeah! Diane is Lorne’s arch-nemesis! So naturally,   
I challenged the evil-handed bastard to a sing-off.   
Let’s just say my voice wasn’t ready for Carnegie Hall, then.   
The evil-handed man won the sing-off and he outed me!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Oh, you’re--er--  
  
Doyle: Yeah  
 _(changes to his demon face, then back)_  
Half-Brachen demon.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Oh . . . oh, dear . . . how old were you?  
  
Doyle: _(shrugs)_  Twenty-two. I lost my job as a teacher,   
I fell into a bottle, and my wife left me--I had nothin’ left, so   
I dedicated my life to the study of music--got voice lessons,   
and everything. And the next time I meet the bastard, I won’t fail.   
I’ll get right up in his face and say: ‘Hello. My name is Alan   
Francis Doyle. You screwed over my mentor. Prepare to die’.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
 _(frowning)_  Isn’t murder a tad . . . extreme, for--  
  
Doyle: Well, I don’t mean ‘die’  _literally!_  I meant that with my   
new voice and my mentor’s song, I’ll kill his career!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Oh. That’s alright, then. And you’ve done nothing but practice, since?  
  
Doyle: Yeah, well, that and try to get my foot in the door.   
See, I can’t get signed to a label without an agent.   
It’s been four years now, and I haven’t got so much as an offer.   
I just work for Wilkins to pay my bar-tab. There’s not a lot   
of money in showbiz, if you don’t have an agent.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Ah.  _(stands up and dusts himself off)_  
Well, I certainly hope you get an agent, someday.   
A manager and a decent record label, too.   
  
Doyle: Thanks! Live in hope, eh?  _(stands up, as well)_  You’re ready, then?  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Whether I am or not, you’ve been quite gracious, considering.  
  
Doyle:  _(shrugs)_  You seem like a decent enough fella. It was the least I could do.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
You, too, seem a decent fellow. I hate to do this.  
 _(brandishes his rapier with a complicated flourish)_  
  
Doyle:  _(holding the Claymore up awkwardly)_  
Oh, I guarantee you’re not hatin’ this as much as I am.   
Let my slaughter begin.  
  
  
[Scene: The ruins at the summit of the Cliffs of Crag. Doyle and the Dread Highwayman Ripper are circling each other warily, about to square off in a sword fight of epic proportions.]  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
I should warn you--don’t even dream of using Bonetti’s defense against me.  
  
Doyle: Er . . . yeah. I hadn’t planned on it, what with the rocky terrain, an’ all.   
  
 _(Doyle swings and misses spectacularly. The Dread Highwayman Ripper dances back out of his way, and circles around behind him. Doyle spins around, just barely in time to parry a thrust)_  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:   
Hmm . . . then naturally, you must expect me to attack with Capo Ferro.  
  
Doyle: Oh, naturally. . . .  
  
 _(The two men circle again, Ripper calmly and confidently, Doyle . . . somewhat less so)_  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
I find that Thibault cancels out Capo Ferro, don't you?   
 _(elegantly blocks Doyle's shaky riposte)_  
Well, unless the enemy hasn’t studied his Agrippa, that is.  
  
Doyle: Which I have! Comes as natural as breathin’, Agrippa does!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
 _(relaxing his stance with a laugh)_  
You really are full of blarney, aren’t you?  
  
 _(He sheathes his rapier and crosses his arms. Doyle cautiously, tiredly lowers the Claymore)_  
  
Doyle: And it don’t come easy, lemme tell ya! Especially when   
someone's fittin' to turn me into a pin-cushion!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:   
I must admit, I have no wish to kill you.  
  
Doyle: Somethin’ we both have in common.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Which isn’t to say I couldn’t kill you quite easily,   
then catch up with your employer, having lost only a few minutes.  
  
Doyle: I believe you . . . so, uh, what happens now, then?  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
I let you live, provided you don’t get in my way or attempt to follow me.  
  
  
Doyle:  _(snorts and sheathes the Claymore)_  
I've got no fencing skills to speak of--never held a sword till yesterday--  
no grace and no wish to die for this crap job. As far as I’m concerned, you’re not my problem anymore. And I’ve no wish to become yours.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Sensible of you.  
  
Doyle: The only thing I don’t gamble with is my life, pal.   
  
 _(Ripper advances on Doyle, sword raised once again. Doyle starts backing up, trying not to trip over rocks)_  
  
Hey! I thought we agreed--no killin’ the crooner!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Yes, but--I can’t have you following me, either. Not that   
I don’t trust your word, but I prefer not to gamble at all,   
if I can avoid it.   
  
Doyle: _(stops backing away and steels himself)_  
Fine, fine--but wait! Before you knock me out--who  _are_  you?  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
No one of consequence.  
  
Doyle: I've gotta know. Maybe we could have a Billy Dee together, someti--  
  
 _(Ripper lunges, and hits Doyle over the head with the hilt of his rapier. Doyle hits the ground, unconscious. Ripper drags him into the shade, then buckles the Claymore onto himself)_  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
 _(apologetically)_  
Please understand--I’ve never been much of a drinker.  
  
  
[Scene: Halfway up a hill, nearby boulders. Richard Wilkins, A.D.A.M. and Liam see Ripper moving towards them.]  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
I’ll be a monkey’s uncle! This is just unfathomable!   
Give the prince to me and catch up with us quickly.  
  
A.D.A.M.:  _(reluctantly nudges Liam toward Wilkins)_  
And what are my orders?  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Come, now, Mr. Cyborg, don’t be coy!   
  
A.D.A.M.:  _(sighing)_  I suppose you want me to kill him.  
  
Richard Wilkins:  
Well, to borrow a phrase from the kids, DUH!  
  
 _(Drags bound and gagged Liam after him, up the hill)_  
  
A.D.A.M. Is there a particular way you wish me to dispatch him?  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
 _(pauses thoughtfully)_  
Stab him with that thingy-majig in your wrist, or   
throw a big rock at his head--or heck, get behind   
the boulder and launch a rocket at him  
when he comes running around the bend.   
Simple, but effective. And I find the simplest ways   
are always best. T-T-F-N!   
  
A.D.A.M.:  _(watching Wilkins and Liam go)_  Simple and effective. . . .  
  
[Cut to a few minutes later, Ripper approaches the boulders, then stops warily, looking from side to side. Just as he takes another step forward, a rocket wizzes past his head and explodes against a boulder nearby. A.D.A.M. steps out from behind a boulder, another rocket locked and loaded. Ripper draws his sword, lightning quick.]  
  
A.D.A.M.: My target acquiring software and hardware is operating   
at optimal capacity. That rocket was purposely misaimed.  
The next one won’t be.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
May I presume there’s a reason you haven’t yet killed me, then?  
  
A.D.A.M.: You may so presume  _(his lips curve in amusement)_  
Richard plans to murder Prince Liam and blame it on  
Ireland, thus starting a war that will claim many  
thousands of lives. That must not happen.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
 _(somewhat flummoxed)_  
I agree.  
  
A.D.A.M.: Yes, I thought you might. To this end, I am willing to let you leave   
this place alive. You will prevent Richard’s plan from coming to fruition.   
You will return Prince Liam to Buckingham Palace, untouched.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
 _(coldly)_  Returning the Prince is out of the question--  
  
A.D.A.M.: _(A.D.A.M.-antly)_  Then I must kill you.   
  
 _(determinedly advances on Ripper, wrist-mounted thingy-majigy extended. Ripper retreats till his back hits a boulder)_  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Er, then again, I’m sure something can be worked out . . .   
look, why is it so important he be returned to the princess?   
  
A.D.A.M.: The prince-consort-to-be was kidnapped, and last seen on Irish soil.   
If Liam isn’t returned unharmed, the princess will wage a   
war of retribution and attrition.   
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
And preventing this possible war is important to a . . .   
creature such as yourself?  
  
  
A.D.A.M.: Not preventing it,  _postponing_  it.  
 _(the amused smile turns unsettling and thoughtful)_    
Richard’s plans directly interfere with my primary imperative.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:   
I see . . . and what  _is_  your primary imperative?  
  
 _(Smiling, A.D.A.M. clumps off in the direction of the ruins, and Doyle)_  
  
A.D.A.M.: If you fail to return the prince, there is nowhere you can hide   
where I won’t find you, and kill you. Slowly.  
  
 _(Ripper watches A.D.A.M. go with a shudder)_  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
I do not envy you the headache you will have awakened   
with, my Irish friend. But I do hope you’ve had the   
good sense to clear out before you have run-in with--that.  
  
 _(Sheathes his sword once more and takes off after Wilkins and the Prince.)_  
  
  
[Scene: The Ruins. Count Lindsey is studying the scuff marks on the ground. Mounted soldiers and Princess Darla are present.]  
  
Count Lindsey:   
Sumbitch! There was some kinda scuffle, here!   
Looks like they both just circled around a lot, and   
didn’t spill any blood. What a couple of pansies!  
  
Princess Darla:  
 _(bored)_  Who won? How did it end?  
  
Count Lindsey:  
The loser slunk off alone, like a low-down pole-cat.   
The winner--if you can call him that--followed those   
footprints toward Dublin. Wanna track ‘em both?  
  
Princess Darla:  
No, no; the loser is nothing. Only Prince Liam matters.  
 _(shifty glances at the listening soldiers)_  
Clearly this was all planned by Irish insurgents, Lindsey.  
We must all be ready for whatever lies ahead.  
  
Count Lindsey:  
 _(vaulting onto his horse like a cowboy)_  
Think this’s a trap?  
  
Princess Darla:  
 _(sexy smirk)_  
Darling boy . . . I always think everything could be a trap . . .   
which is why I'm still alive.  
  
 _(Urges horse into a canter. The Count and the mounted soldiers follow)_  
  
  
[Scene: Open area. Richard Wilkins is seated at a rock. Liam, blindfolded, is sitting to his left. On the rock is a checkered tablecloth, a bottle of sangria and two goblets. Ripper approaches slowly]  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Shucks, aren’t you the Persistent Pete! Looks like it’s down   
to you, and li’l ol’ me. Oh, and if you wish him dead, please  
keep on movin' closer.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Let me explain--  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
There’s nothing to explain. You're trying to bird-dog  
what I’ve rightfully--oh, stolen is such an ugly word.   
You’re trying to bird-dog what I’ve rightfully  _appropriated_ ,   
and that’s just rude!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Perhaps an arrangement could be reached?  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
There will be no arrangements, kiddo, and you're--  
  
 _(Chuckles and presses the knife a little harder against Liam’s throat)_  
  
You’re just  _killing_  Bonny Prince Liam!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
 _(stops, hands held up)_  
Well, if there can be no arrangement, then we are at an impasse.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Looks like. I can't compete with you and those big, sharp blades,   
and you’re no match for my brains, patience, or intestinal fortitude.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Have a cast-iron stomach, do you?  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Let me put it this way: have you ever heard of that guy  
that eats light bulbs? Or that guy that ate a whole Volkswagen,   
fender to fender.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Yes.   
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Dilettantes.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Really? In that case, I challenge you to an eating contest.   
  
Richard Wilkins:   
For the prince?  _(Ripper nods)_  Till one of us says uncle?   
 _(Ripper nods)_  Sounds like fun! I accept!   
  
 _(Approaches and sits at the other place setting)_  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Good. Then pour the sangria.  
 _(pulls out a small phial, and uncorks it)_  
Inhale this, but do not touch.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
 _(suspiciously)_    
Is that sneezing powder? Because pranks’ll also   
get your prince kebabed, Mister!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
I assure you, it’s not sneezing powder.  
  
Richard Wilkins:  
Better not be  _(takes the phial and inhales)_  
Huh! Don’t smell a thing!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Yes. What you do not smell is called Essence of Gavrok.  
It is odorless, tasteless, dissolves instantly in liquid,  
and is among the more deadly poisons known to man   
and demon.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
But I betcha it’ll never replace good ol’ salt on the average household table.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:   
No, I don’t suppose it will.  
  
 _(He turns away from Wilkins with the goblets, and pours the powder in. He turns to face Wilkins, again, and places the goblets on the table, one in front of each of them. He tosses the cork on away.)_  
  
Alright. Where is the Essence of Gavrok? The battle   
has begun. It ends when you decide and we both drink,   
and find out who is right . . . and who is dead.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Come, now--it's so simple! All I have to do is divine from  
what I know about you: are you the sort of wascally wabbit  
who'd put the poison into his own goblet or his enemy's?   
Now, a Sneaky Steven would put the poison into  
his own goblet, because he would know that only a  
Goofus would reach for what he was given. Again, not  
to be a Braggin’ Brian, but I’m not a Goofus, so   
I can clearly not choose the sangria in front of you.   
But you must have known I wouldn’t be a Goofus--  
you would have counted on it--so I can clearly not   
choose the sangria in front of me!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
You've made your decision then?  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Now, now, don’t try to rush me, Mr. Impatience!   
See, Essence of Gavrok comes from pulverizing the   
inhabitants of a Box of Gavrok; those are only found  
around Hellmouths, as everyone knows. Hellmouths  
are almost entirely populated with, well, demons. And  
demons are used to having people not trust them, as--  
sadly--you are not trusted by me. So, I can clearly not   
choose the sangria in front of you.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Your logic has a certain . . . insane poetry to it.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Oh, pshaw! You’re just buttering me up--not that I mind! Where was I?  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Hellmouths.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Yes! And you must have suspected I would’ve known   
the powder's origin, you scamp, so I can clearly not choose  
the sangria in front of me!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
You're just stalling now.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Oh . . . you'd like to think that, wouldn't you?! You've beaten  
my cyborg, which means you're exceptionally strong,  
so you could've poured the Essence into your own goblet,  
trusting on your strength to save you, so I can  
clearly not choose the sangria in front of you! But,  
you've also bested my half-breed, which means you must  
have studied, and in studying you must have learned  
that even half-demons are mortal, so you would have put   
the poison as far from yourself as possible, so I can clearly  
not choose the sangria in front of me!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
If you're trying to trick me into giving away something, it shan't work.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
But it  _has_  worked, Silly-Billy! You’ve given everything away!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Then make your choice!  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
I already have, and I choose--Lordy, is that Pat Boone?  
  
 _(Wilkins gestures over Ripper’s shoulder, into the distance from the table and Ripper turns to look)_  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
What? Where? I don't see anyone.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Well, I--I could have sworn I saw him.  _(smiles kindly)_    
Must be my age, catching up with me. Never mind!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Why are you smiling like that?  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Tell you in a minute. First, let's toast: to budding friendships!   
  
 _(They clink goblets and drink, long and deep. Ripper finishes his a second after Wilkins and smiles, too)_  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
You guessed wrong, old bean.  
  
Richard Wilkins:   
Hate to break it to you, Mr. Mask, but you only think I guessed wrong! I switched goblets while your back was turned! Hee! Ain’t I a stinker?  
Not to be a Braggin’ Brian again, but you fell victim to one of the classic   
blunders! The most famous is never get involved in a land deal with a  
governor of Arkansas, but only slightly less well-known is this: never go   
in against a twenty-term mayor, when re-election is on the line! Hee!   
Wow, that was so exciting--like something right out of  _Clue_!   
And that sangria, huh? Better than a  _V8 Splash_ \--  
  
 _(Wilkins stops talking suddenly and frowns)_  
  
Well, gosh--!  
  
 _(He topples to the ground, dead. Ripper stands up and undoes Liam’s blindfold. Liam blinks up at him.)_  
  
Liam: Who are you?   
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
 _(untying Liam’s hands)_  
I'm no one to be trifled with. That is all you ever need know.  
  
Liam:  _(spits on Wilkins's corpse and rubs feeling back into his wrists)_  
And to think, all that time it was your cup that had the Essence.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Actually, they both did. I spent the last few years building up   
an immunity to Essence of Gavrok.   
  
  
[Scene: At the boulders. Count Lindsey is examining footprints and shrapnel. Princess Darla is staring off into space, licking her lips and still smirking. The soldiers are bored, and telling dirty jokes.]  
  
Count Lindsey:  
Hoooooooooooooooooooo- _doggies_!  
Someone did the two-fisted tango with a cyborg   
and walked away! Hot-damn!  
  
 _(He does a back-flip and handstand, vaulting into the saddle, garnering golf-applause from the soldiers and an indulgent smile from the princess)_  
  
Princess Darla:  
There will be great suffering in Ireland if that boy dies.  
  
Count Lindsey:   
I’m down with that! Let’s giddyap, and rustle us up some kidnappers!  
  
  
[Scene: Ripper crests the top of hill, dragging Liam behind him. He stops suddenly, and shoves Liam at a small pile of stones.]  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Catch your breath.  
  
Liam: If you don’t let me go, I promise: you’ll pay.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
 _(laughs)_  And what is that worth, the promise of an Irishman?  
You’re very funny, my lord.  
  
Liam: I was giving you a chance. It doesn’t matter where  
you take me. There is no greater control freak than Princess  
Darla. And her lapdog, Count Lindsey can track a falcon   
on a cloudy day. He can find you.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
You think your--bit of fluff will save you?  
  
Liam: That pathetic half-wit is  _not_  my bit of fluff--  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
I meant Princess Darla.  
  
Liam: Oh. Well, she’s not my bit-of-fluff, either,   
but she'll come after me . . . that I know.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
You admit to me that you do not--care for the princess?  
  
Liam:  _(snorts)_  She treats me like some kinda servant, or pet!   
Have you any idea what that's like?   
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
 _(completely without ironic inflection)_  
No, I'm sure I don't.  
  
Liam: It's humiliating! How could I care for someone like that?  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Perhaps you’re simply incapable of caring for  _anyone_ , save yourself.  
  
Liam:  _(stands up, shaking with rage)_  
I have cared more deeply than a lowlife like yourself could ever understand.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:   
 _(draws the Claymore and Liam flinches . . . then resheathes it grimly)_  
That was a warning, Highness. The next time this sword swings   
on its own and you lose a part of your anatomy you value greatly.  
  
 _(Liam pales even more and puts his hands over his crotch, backing away. Ripper rolls his eyes)_  
  
Keep a civil tongue, in my presence, or I’ll remove it.  
  
Liam: Oh. Prick.  
  
 _(Ripper grabs Liam’s arm and drags him down the other side of the hill)_  
  
  
[Scene: At the Table. Count Lindsey prods Wilkins’s corpse and sniffs at the discarded phial.]  
  
Count Lindsey:  
Gavrok, as sure as I’m standin’ here!  _Essence_  of Gavrok,   
which is, like, Gavrok-concentrate! And there’s the prince’s  
footprints. He's alive--or was, ‘bout an hour ago.   
  
Princess Darla:  
 _(pouts)_  If he’s otherwise, when I find him, I shall be very put out.  
  
 _(Lindsey mounts up and the party rides off--again)_  
  
  
[Scene: A grassy Hilltop, alongside a gully. Once again, Ripper shoves Liam onto a pile of rocks. They’re both breathless and sweaty from all the fleeing.]  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Rest, Highness.  
  
Liam: I know who you are--your cruelty reveals everything, you bastard!  
You're the Dread Highwayman Ripper, admit it!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:   
 _(sarcastic half-bow)_  With pride. How may I be of service?  
  
Liam: By dying slowly, cut into itty-bitty pieces.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
 _(tsks)_    
Hardly complimentary, your Highness. Why loose your venom on me?  
  
Liam: You killed my . . . my lover.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
It’s possible, if not probable. I kill quite a lot of people.   
Who was this lover? Another princess like this one:   
snobby, rich, and slutty?  
  
Liam: No. An accountant--effete . . . effete and gorgeous.   
With an arse I could bounce a shilling off of.   
  
 _(He sighs, remember the night he’d done so vividly; he doesn't notice the blush that spreads across what little of Ripper’s face is visible. He comes back to himself with a scowl)_  
  
Just outside our front gate, your brigands attacked.   
And the Dread Highwayman Ripper never takes English prisoners.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Well, I can't afford to do that, can I? I mean once word  
leaks out that I’m sparing the English, my men would begin  
to disobey me. Then it'd be nothing but work, work, work,   
all the time.  
  
Liam: You’re mocking my pai--my sexual frustration!  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Life  _is_  sexual frustration, Highness. Anyone who says differently  
is selling porn.   
  
 _(Ripper paces past Liam, gazing into the distance)_  
  
I remember this accountant of yours. This would be what,   
five years ago? Does it bother you to hear?  
  
Liam:  _(glaring)_  Nothing you can say’ll bother me, you filthy, murdering dog.  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
He died well, that should please you. No bribe attempts and--  
minimal blubbering. He mostly said, ‘Please . . . please,   
I need to live.’ 'Twas the ‘please’ that caught my memory.   
I asked him what was so important for him here. ‘True Love,'   
he replied. And then, the deluded fool spoke of a young man of   
angelic beauty and faithfulness. I can only assume he meant you.   
You should bless me for destroying him before he found out what you   
really are.  
  
Liam:  _(jumping to his feet)_  And what am I, then?  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:  
Faithfulness, he spoke of, sir--he went on and on about how   
you’d wait for him to come home. Now tell me truly,   
when you found out he was gone, did you shag your   
princess that same hour, or did you wait a whole day,   
out of respect for the dead?  
  
Liam:  _(fists clenching and releasing)_  That’s it. You killed my Wesley   
and for that, I’m gonna kill  _you_ , but first--  
  
 _(The princess and her guard gallop into sight, at the top of a nearby ridge. Ripper glances up, distracted)_  
  
\--I’m gonna spend the next two weeks slowly shovin’ my Claymore   
right up your arse!  
  
 _(Liam grabs the sword, and in the process knocks Ripper backwards. He goes tumbling down the hill)_  
  
Dread Highwayman Ripper:   
. . . ‘right . . . ‘iam . . . ’ive . . . it . . . ‘ere. . . !  
  
 _(Liam’s eyes widen as Ripper rolls down the hill, mask and bandanna flying off. The Claymore clatters to the ground, forgotten)_  
  
Liam:  _(Disbelievingly)_    
 _Wesley_? But you're--  
  
 _(Sheathes the Claymore and starts to run down the hill after Wesley)_  
  
Silly English twat, look what you've made me do--   
 _(Three steps in he slips on a loose stone and goes tumbling after.)_


End file.
